Fantastic Somebody

She types some profanity in my direction then asks if I’m still alive. I haven’t emailed, called or smoke signaled her in weeks. As far as she knows I fell into a hitchhiking vortex (called “death” usually) somewhere between here and New Mexico. But I’m glad that my Wife in Another Life has emailed. The email is a paroxysm of playful barbs and surrealist spelling-errors. She asks me if I’ve received her “package.” I think, “Yeah I’ve received it. I received it six weeks ago in New Mexico whilst covered in whores and cocaine.” I squint my eyes to help jog my memory, “It was filled with Amaranth, naughty pictures, and a little man,” I say to myself. I decidedly have no phucking clue what she is talking about. But I like it…and I like her.

The next day John der Postmann surrenders the package to my crappy Ace Hardware mailbox. My Wifey in Another Lifey has indeed sent me something. By the time I receive it, it is already open. For this I blame John der Postmann, my own crappy mailbox, and those damn skate-boarding gangsters from around the corner—never mind that it has traveled thousands of miles.

As the contents of the package are not valuable in the money-talks-god-bless-capitalism sorta way I know nothing has been stolen.

She sends some zines published by SuKuLTur—they are a mimicry of those cheap n’ nifty Reclam Publications.

Berlin is one of my favorite cities. It’s quite cheap, it’s multi-kulti, and it’s alive and ever changing and expanding (but not in the Irvine Company or Renaissance Plan way). It’s an incredibly organic city that has rapidly mutated since 1989.

I shoot her a heartfelt email: let’s talk, there is much to say, I miss you.